


not even life controls us

by tstske



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tstske/pseuds/tstske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshots & drabbles about Donald Cousland, Grey Warden</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to get over my anxiety and upload some ficlets about my Grey Warden. I uploaded one a while ago but I deleted it for some reason, it's back just in case anyone liked it haha. starting out with the end of his story

He was twenty three when he pulled his family’s sword from a downed hurlock and charged at the massive, blighted dragon.

He was twenty three, with many regrets and many unfulfilled promises but he’d tried so hard, oh _Maker_ he had tried to make things right.

He had tried, and he had failed, but he would make all up for it now.

Twenty three years worth of memories, twenty three years worth of tears and scars and laughter and love, twenty three years of fighting and fucking and adventuring and -

It culminated in a kiss, the purest love he had ever felt and to think it was all going to disappear, blink out like a candle in a winter’s storm. It was either he or the King, and there was no way someone as important as that would slip away through time. He wanted a wordless goodbye. It felt right.

“I’m sorry, my love,” came tumbling out of his bloodstained lips before he could stop himself, his mouth was smiling but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. And then he ran.


	2. reflection

It felt blasphemous to cry in a place such as this, the resting place of the ashes of Andraste. Yet here he was, kneeling with clasped hands pressed to his forehead, sobbing and shaking. He had been getting better, but…

He didn’t know if anyone had seen what he had seen, but they were acting with shock at his breakdown so he suspected otherwise. His father had been there, alive and well, sliding a polished silver pendant into his hands.

Alistair knelt down beside him and held his hands, pulling them away from his face slowly. He was saying something that Don didn’t understand, being caught up in his own thoughts, his tears tapping against the cold stone floor.

“He called me his son…”


	3. hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unsafe binding and dysphoria ahead

It was hard to wrap the bandages himself. Sometime after Lothering Don found himself hating every aspect of himself, wanted to hide anything on his person that could be seen as feminine. Because even though he knew he wasn’t, it wasn’t obvious to everyone.

So now he was at the edge of camp with Alistair, on their way back from asking the mages at the circle to help with their demon problem in Redcliffe. Like a hawk, newcomer Wynne had already picked Don apart and sought out his most vulnerable parts and while she wasn’t malicious, it still hurt. And then she picked up on Don’s thing for the bastard prince, and he knew he wouldn’t like her nagging after that.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep doing it this way,” Alistair muttered, tossing away the old, bloodied bandages. “You’re a mess! I don’t like seeing you all torn up like this.”

“We have poultices, I’ll be fine.”

Don began wrapping the new bandages almost immediately, forgoing the poultice he had brought and reopening old wounds. He had been wrapping them too tight, and fighting too hard; he had a suspicion of infection but didn’t even want to fix that. He hated his chest.

Alistair grumbled but didn’t walk away.

“You know, Wynne was saying you’re going to hurt yourself if this is how you flatten your chest…” said Alistair, “I mean, you look hurt already but - ”

“I don’t care what Wynne has to say! I don’t care about what anyone has to say about this, Alistair!” He was angry, out of nowhere it seemed, suddenly aware of how high his voice was. “It’s my body and my choice and I’ll do what I please!”

“Love, I -”

“You’ll never understand, none of you will ever understand what this is like.” Was he crying, now? The anger had turned to grief in three seconds flat.

“That’s true, I don’t think I’ll ever understand,” said Alistair softly, “but I’m trying, for you.”


	4. finisher

He had gotten good at fighting. Don knew exactly where to drive a sword to kill a man in the least amount of effort possible. It helped that a good number of his targets were unarmored blood mages and even though he felt regret for slaying another human he kept reminding himself they attacked first.

But in the dungeons of the Arl of Denerim’s estate it was different. He wanted to cause as much pain as possible.

It was a rescue mission and Don had known that, the lure of searching the castle for Howe was dampened under the pressing need to find the queen. Everyone was concerned about him, concerned that he would fly off the handle and go storming the estate for the bastard that had slaughtered his family. However, Don did his job and he also went above the call of duty and released the prisoners in the dungeon - other than some cretin that had caused trouble in the alienage. Don saw no reason to put another danger back on the streets.

And then they found themselves deep in the dungeons and Howe was there, a frown on his thin lips and fires of hatred burning in his throat.

"I’m glad Bryce’s little girl still likes to play the dashing prince," he sneered, and Don could feel the firebreath in his own throat grow stronger. A lump had lodged itself under his jaw and his hand tensed on his blade - his family’s blade - the enchanted lightning sparking around his fingers.

"I’m not a little girl," Don spat. It was all he could bring himself to say. "I’m a man -"

Howe laughed, drawing his own sword. Don braced himself, positioned himself so his teammates wouldn’t be able to land the first blow.

"You sound like a mockery of one, girl. Did you consort with blood mages to grow that fuzz on your face? To deepen your voice? You’re disgusting. No wonder your family was a blemish on this land."

"You disgust me, Howe, slaughtering my entire family and continuing to hide behind petty insults," Don said, his voice cracking. "This isn’t about me, its about your treachery, its about the deaths of dozens of innocent people at your hands!"

Something flashed across Howe’s face that Don couldn’t recognize.

"There it is! Right there. That damned look in the eye that marks every Cousland success that held me back. It would appear that you have made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud. I, however, want you dead more than ever."

He lunged, his first blow glancing off of Don’s shield carelessly. Don quickly sidled around, holding his shield up, tears and ice and lightning blazing inside him. He stabbed again and again, Howe managing to get a few good hits in because Don was so eager to hurt him. Blood splashed across his armor, Howe’s arm suddenly went limp at his side, they continued exchanging blows until Don ditched his weapons and began wailing on him with his armored fists.

The dull thud of metal against flesh echoed around the small room. Howe’s guards and mages were dead, Don was the only one fighting, beating on a nearly dead man with everything he had. Dimly he was aware that he was sobbing. Bits of gore clung to the knuckles of his gauntlets, blood slicked across their surface, glinting in the firelight.

He wasn’t aware Howe was dead until Jack had grabbed his shoulder. Don jerked away instinctively, his chest heaving with painful sobs. He finally stopped, put his head in his hands, stared at the lifeless body of the man that had ruined his life. None of this seemed real.

"Donald. We are on a mission. We need to go."

"Shut up, Jack. I’m not-"

The mage jerked him up, ignoring Don’s weak resistance, and glared at him.

"We did not come here for your revenge, pull yourself together."

Don bit his lip so hard it bled, hoping the pain would ground him. “I’m sorry.”

"You got what you wanted, you should be feeling better, now let’s go."

He didn’t feel any better. Looking back at the body as they left felt like a dream. A childish part of Don felt that if he had killed Howe everything would go back to normal, but he knew it didn’t, the bloodied corpse hadn’t fixed anything. It was just dead, the same as his mother and father, the same as the rest of the people at the castle.

Nothing could revive the dead, he knew that now for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack Amell is my boyfriend's warden haha


	5. abandoned dresses

There were guests at the castle, a noble family from Kirkwall whom Don wanted nothing to do with. He had abandoned the fancy silk dress moments after his mother forced him to put it on. The collar was too high and too tight and he hated the way it hugged his curves and most of all he hated how everyone called him the wrong name while he was wearing it.

(It was an ugly color, too.)

The knight’s training yard was mercifully empty and Don edged inside, holding his breath, afraid that any heavy breathing would alert his parents to his location no matter how far away they were. The evening light dyed everything orange and red, a slight breeze ruffled Don’s hair as he shut the door and reached for one of the practice swords. This was the only place he felt at home.

He managed to get a good solid hour of practice before his mother nearly sent the door flying off its hinges.

“Why weren’t you at dinner? And where is your dress?” she asked. Her voice was calm but demanding, the tone lighting a fire in Don’s chest.

“I hadn’t practiced all day, figured I could get some in,” he said, gesturing to the sagging practice dummy beside him. “Dress is in the laundry, probably, I left it in the hall and one of the servants picked it up because I couldn’t find it.”

He saw her brow scrunch up the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeable.

“So you snuck out here, ignoring your guests and leaving a dress – a gift! – in the middle of the hall?”

Don contemplated the reactions to any of his replies before sliding his practice sword back into the rack and nodding. No matter what he said she would get angry and he knew deserved it, deep down.

“You know I can’t stand these stuffy parties,” he said, his head down.

“Elissa, you can’t keep running away from everyone! Are you going to keep this habit of hiding whenever you get uncomfortable if you ever become Teyrna?” Eleanor asked, and Don’s ears went red upon hearing his discarded name. Tie him up and lash him later, he wouldn’t let this pass.

“I’m never becoming  _Teyrn_ ,” he said, trying to call upon that Cousland spark, “not if I have anything to say, at least. Not like anyone listens to me anyway, since you’re still calling me  _that_.”

“Dear, its your  _name_  - ”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Donald!”

Eleanor laughed in surprise, “How many times do  _I_  have to tell  _you_  to stop shirking your duties! Maybe if you stopped playing these games, you - ”

But Don had heard enough and he pushed past her and nearly ran around the castle to his bedroom, locking the door after slamming it hard enough to shake every windowpane on the wall. He wasn’t sure why he was crying; he  _had_  started it, after all, but…

Fergus stopped by later, to make sure Don wasn’t drunk or sleeping with one of the knights again, but Don ignored him.

Even though someone had finally called him Don.


	6. puppies

“Why do you chop their tails off?”

“So their tails don’t get hurt while they’re out fighting, or tracking, or whatever their master decides they should do. Y’see the ears get the same treatment, for the same reasons, more or less.”

Don nodded in understanding but still felt sick, watching the pups crawl around their mother with bloody bandages on their ears. It seemed like too cruel of a thing for the boy to comprehend. The kennel master was cleaning his tools, shooting glances over at the young noble as he crouched over the mabari’s pen to make sure she wasn’t about to snap at him.

“Your pa really lettin’ you train to be a knight?”

Don nodded again, silently, not looking up from the dogs. The dust and dander from the kennels was making his face itch and he kept picking at it, watching the mother mabari stare at him with her wide, dark eyes. He’d read a lot about mabari, ever since he read that some of Ferelden’s greatest knights rode into battle alongside them. It only made sense that he’d have one too, eventually.

(Might even make a friend, and Maker knew Don needed one of those.)

He was supposed to be choosing his future hound today, actually. The last several months were spent gaining the mother’s trust and learning everything possible about training the wardog, and Father had said he’d been doing well, which made Don’s chest swell up with pride. Whatever illness had claimed him in youth was still aching in his lungs but he worked hard despite it, and now he would finally be one step closer to being a real knight.

But which pup was the best?

There were seven whining babies wriggling around their mother like furry sausages, nearly all of them the same rusty red as their parents. A few were more silvery with dark points, sticking out among their siblings. The kennel master finished what he was doing and strolled over, hands in his pockets.

“You decide yet?” he said, startling Don a little.

“No, they’re all good…can I have them all?”

The man laughed, “No, sadly, not even the Teyrn’s kid can get away with that.”

He knelt over and pointed at one of the silver puppies which was sandwiched between two red ones.

“How about this one? Sort of matches your hair.”

Don didn’t really think it matched his hair at all. The man gently lifted it and placed it in Don’s arms and it was like everything became perfect. The pup wasn’t even squirming anymore, simply lying in the crook of Don’s elbow and making tiny muffled yips. Even if he had a chance to hold every single one of the puppies he suddenly doubted he’d love them as much as this one. He started envisioning his life with the dog, aware he might’ve been getting ahead of himself. Glorious battles…dangerous adventures….The man seemed to catch on and laughed again.

“Matches you perfectly, don’t it? I’m usually right about these things…”


	7. blood magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au kinda thing where, instead of manipulating alistair into the dark ritual or forgoing it completely, don tries out some weird blood magic potion idk. with the power of headcanons anything is possible

He watched Morrigan carefully tip the cupful of blood into the flask, the glass glinting in the firelight as he began to suture the gash in his arm. He could go to Wynne, and have her use her healing magic to numb it as he worked, but she would not approve of why he had bled himself out.

Morrigan muttered an incantation and used gentle flames from her fingertips to heat the flask. Her face was stony, the air in the room tense.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Don said quietly, though teeth clenched from the pain. Morrigan said nothing. The concoction in the glass bubbled and turned pitch black, ribbons of metallic blood red floating up the sides. Don had quite enough of blood magic, but if what Riordan was true – despite what Morrigan had planned – he was willing to risk it. He wasn’t fond of dying, either.

“I believe it’s close to being finished…” said Morrigan, leaving the potion to stew a little longer before turning to Don. “I suppose I should answer your question…No, I’m not sure.”

Great. Don finished up the last few stitches before tying it off and snapping the thread with his teeth. He wondered if Alistair would be stubborn about dealing the final blow. He wondered if Alistair would hate him if he ran ahead and stabbed the demon himself.

“Do not look so sad. I have faith in my abilities,” Morrigan said, and she ran a hand down Don’s jaw and he shivered. Then he realized he needed to shave, but shaving could wait until after the Blight, probably. If everything…

“Thank you for that, Morrigan,” he said. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, and…this.”

He pointed to the potion, which was completely darkened now, and Morrigan frowned at it.

“Well, tis only one way to see if this worked.” And she downed the liquid in one fell swoop, grimacing afterward. Don couldn’t help but smile.

“We can still sleep together, if you want. More fun than drinking something that’s likely poison.”


	8. calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soo basically my boyfriend and i have a shared multiwarden canon; his warden performs the dark ritual which allows mine to stay alive and become king consort and start a family. here is the end result of that

Alistair noticed it first, mere weeks before Donald’s thirty seventh birthday, pointing out the purplish blemishes that ran down Don’s right side.

“Have you been sparring with the new guards again? Not as nimble as you were, I guess,” he joked, until he realized the spots were more blighted than bruised and suddenly the bright winter’s morning was tense and somber.

“I’ve been having the dreams,” Don admitted quietly. He had so much more to say, suddenly, but not the exact words to say it.

“Let’s go back to sleep for an hour or two,” said Alistair. “We can figure it out in the morning.”

–

People who took the Joining during a Blight were likely to succumb first, Don knew, but he assumed he would be spared to live out the full 30 years afterward peacefully. Or at least as peacefully as a Grey Warden could live, all things considered. Being King’s Consort had its perks, but his noble blood couldn’t save him from this.

“What will you tell Elliot?” Zevran asked during lunch, looking between the king and his husband. “She will want to know what’s happening, no?”

Elliot had thankfully finished lunch in record time and was away playing, so she didn’t have to watch Don bury his face in his hands and try not to tear up again. She was a miracle child and Don wanted to spare her from as much harm as possible. A natural birth between two Wardens was rare.

“Shes thirteen now, we could just tell her the truth,” Alistair said, unsure of himself, picking at his food. Don glanced at him from between his fingers.

“She’s  _only_  thirteen. Do you want to be the one to tell her that her Papa is running away to die?”

–

Elliot wasn’t playing as Don had suspected and when he went looking for her he found her holed up in her room, head down at her desk. Small wooden knights and mabari – toys he had carved in her early years – were strewn around her, clearly forgotten. She looked up as the door creaked open.

“Did you and Father fight this morning?” she asked, and Don paused. “You seemed upset at lunchtime…”

_If only it was that simple,_  Don thought bitterly. He pulled over one of her tiny chairs and sat beside her.

“No, no, we’re fine…What were you up to?”

Elliot shrugged and pointed to one of the knights. “Playing, I guess.”

Don picked it up, looking it over. His skills with a knife and wood weren’t very good, but he had managed to carve out the Grey Warden’s distinctive winged helmet. He remembered whittling away at these, weeks after Elliot’s birth; depression and dysphoria had bedridden him and he needed something to do to keep his mind off things while he wasn’t being a father. Now he couldn’t imagine why he was so sad at the time. Elliot was beautiful and brought him more joy than anything.

“Did you have armor like this?” said Elliot. “Back when you and Father were Wardens?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied Don, “barely any of us had more than the shirts on our backs. I’m still a Warden, too. That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

Elliot started chewing on her hair and turned to see Don properly, concern crossing her face. Don took a deep breath. His chest shuddered.

“Tomorrow morning I will be leaving on important Warden business,” he paused, taking a shaky breath, “and I am not sure if I will be coming back.”

“Are you going to Weisshaupt?”

A pause. Don reached out and gestured for Elliot to sit in his lap and she did, and he hugged her as tightly as possible. Her body seemed unnaturally small and he never wanted to let her go.

“Elliot, I love you so much, I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

“I love you too, Papa.”

She seemed to pick up on his intent, as she didn’t say anything more. Her fingers tugged at his silken cuffs, twisting the fabric over and under.

“No matter what happens, I will always love you,” Don mumbled. Time stood still.

–

Daybreak. The blight had overcome most of Don’s chest and back, and he was hearing a calling, his Calling, and so he stood in an empty courtyard anxiously. Miserably. He knew this day would come, had known it for years, had irrationally thought that saving the world and starting a family would stave it off. He wondered if working with Avernus would’ve cured this. Too late to find out now.

He would be taking a horse to Orzammar, alone, and sell his horse to the surface merchants there. Toss the money to the beggars he found as he didn’t need it anymore. The song was too loud and too bright in Don’s skull to really plot things out perfectly.

He tried to slip out unnoticed but nothing slipped past his loyal assassin’s eyes, and to Don’s horror Alistair was standing by the door.

“I thought we got everything figured out last night,” said Don, voice cracking. Alistair’s eyes were red and his shook his head.

“We didn’t, and we never will,” and then Alistair kissed Don like it was their wedding night again. Tearful and full of love and oh Maker, how could he have been so doubtful of his marriage? It was obvious it could all fall apart overnight.

“I’ll be following you soon, I promise,” said Alistair. Don, scared, grabbed Alistair’s warm palms.

“Don’t say things like that anymore,” he said, “they were romantic when we were young but we have a daughter now. You, have a daughter now. Be there for her for as long as you can.”

The corners of Don’s eyes started to burn and it was getting harder to block out the song but he refused to look away from Alistair’s face, from his eyes, the way the lines crinkled at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s still your daughter,” he whispered, “she’s  _your_ daughter.”

“I don’t want to leave you both, you know that.”

Alistair sniffed deeply, like he had something more to say, but didn’t say anything.

“I love you,” Don said. He’d said it every day for the past fifteen years and yet every time it sounded like new.

“I love you too,” said Alistair. And they kissed one last time, to the sounds of songbirds rising with the sun.


	9. writing

They said he hadn’t been holding his quill right.

Don didn’t understand what they meant, no matter how many times they forced him to pause during notes to correct his posture. He couldn’t wrap his fingers around the shaft like they wanted him too. It was uncomfortable, and his writing was legible in the end so why did it matter?

But here he was, at almost ten years old, and finally starting to get frustrated with himself. The teacher had written him an essay on ruled parchment that he was to copy exactly. Her loopy lettering confused his eyes and the letters seemed to jump about and evade him. Don had just gotten a grasp of reading without the jumpy letters; maybe the stress of the task was starting to get to him.

The paragraph of essay he had managed to copy on his own lined parchment looked horrible in comparison. He had managed to get away writing thick, blocky letters since he was old enough to hold a quill and was confused that now, suddenly, it wasn’t good enough. His vain attempt at cursive was even worse.

This frustrated Don to tears. Why couldn’t he write like the other children? Why couldn’t he write like Fergus? His older, better sibling’s handwriting was crisp and clean - sometimes he even rewrote Don’s lessons so it was easier for his eyes to take in. He remembered the horrible bullying, from adults and children alike, when he had mentioned his reading problems and he couldn’t even fathom the amount of ridicule he would get presenting this scroll to his teacher.

Dusk was settling over the castle, and Don was tired, and he decided he would give this horrible thing another attempt after he had rested. The 30th times a charm, after all.


	10. old god baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow up to this chapter: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1753268/chapters/4797111  
> starting to think making a fic just a bunch of drabbles was a bad idea

“He has your eyes,” she had said, and funnily enough that's exactly what Don was going to say. Morrigan held the toddler close to her chest and he stared at his father for the first time with his mother's brilliant golden eyes. The boy resembled Morrigan, mostly, with the exception of Don's wide eyes and thick wavy hair.

Breathing seemed impossible. The thought of having children himself was such a horrifying thing – he'd have to suffer through pregnancy, and then the birth – but here in front of him was his son. Something fragile and beautiful and frightening all at once.

And he hadn't been allowed to see his child for two years.

“Can I - ” Don tugged off his gauntlets and reached out for his son. Morrigan glanced at his calloused hands in what seemed like slight surprise, spotting the metal band around his finger. Don frowned, thinking she wasn't going to hand the child over, before noticing the ring.

“You knew I kept it on me at all times.”

“You were with Alistair, I assumed you merely kept it in your bag. I didn't think...”

“He certainly didn't like it, but I wasn't willing to take it off.”

She looked accusatory, almost. “What is your relationship with him?”

Don sighed, the tension in the room killing him. The boy kept staring.

“We're still together. But there's no law that says I can't keep loving you, as well. I-I waited two years...I wanted to...”

His stomach dropped as Morrigan kept looking at him with those piercing eyes, but she whispered something to the boy and passed him over.

Don started crying. The entire world had stopped; after two years of longing, two years of letters sent to nowhere and useless leads here he was, holding his child.

“What's his name?” he mumbled, hugging the boy gently. He seemed to calm at his father's touch, no longer staring in anxiety and resting his head on Don's shoulder.

“His name is Kieran. It seemed like...something you would have named him.”

 


	11. the winter palace

Don watched Noel limp away, gaudy cane clacking on the smooth flooring, hoping the kid (the Inquisitor, he reminded himself tiredly) would have himself a fun night despite everything going on around him. He looked at the glass of liquor in his hand with a slight smirk, twirling it around to see the light glint off its surface. The buzz of alcohol was already clouding his brain; he'd started drinking long before they even arrived at the palace. This was simply fuel for the fire.

“I hate these fancy Orlesian parties...” Don mumbled to no one in particular as he took a sip.

“ 'Too many masks. Scanning jawlines for scars, beards, the tilt of his neck...I need to stay safe, it's so difficult -' ” A small sigh. “The others said you had stopped drinking, Donald.”

Don whipped around, prepared to fight, but stopped upon seeing the gangly, ghostly boy standing behind him. The Inquisition finery looked strange on Cole, even with Noel's personalizations.

“Oh, hello Cole. Who told you I'd stopped drinking? What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“Noel told me you were trying, at least.” Cole tapped his fingers against the back of his other hand, trying his hardest to fidget in an acceptable way. “It would make it easier to avoid spinning dark thoughts together. Who is Jack? Is he the man with the scar across his lip?”

Don scowled and turned away from the spirit, downing the rest of his drink and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He could barely feel it, unpleasantly numb.

“It's none of your business. I already told you when we met not to poke around my mind. Go bother someone else.”

“I can help, untangle the lies from the love -”

“Enough, Cole. Leave me be.”

Without waiting for a response Don walked away, stumbling a little. He heard quiet, mocking remarks as he passed another buffet table and brushed them off. Nothing he hadn't heard before, and his status as Hero of Ferelden made him nearly untouchable.

Though that could've been the smooth Antivan brandy talking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noel is my inquisitor, hes a warrior with fibromyalgia. i tend to insert myself in my characters and i was diagnosed with fibro last year so i gave it to him lol. also i made don the military advisor of skyhold and replace cullen because...no ones here to stop me >:3 *rewrites biowares entire canon because i hate it*
> 
> 99% of the fics i write take place in the canon i share with my fiance, jack is his warden


End file.
